


I'm okay. (really, he is guys.)

by mysteriouslypeculiar



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eating Disorders, Eddie has Orthorexia, I didn't show this one to my mom, M/M, but I did show it to my friends so there's that, don't worry there is a happy ending, eddie is OKAY, mainly anxiety and avoidance, the eating disorder isn't graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriouslypeculiar/pseuds/mysteriouslypeculiar
Summary: “...anything that has egg in it...gluten, and if I eat a cashew I could realistically die…”His therapist said it was orthorexia. It was an eating disorder. Eddie Kaspbrack had an eating disorder.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Eddie Kaspbrak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 152





	I'm okay. (really, he is guys.)

Richie shot up in bed, panic surging through him. Sweat clung to his body, his fringe cemented to his forehead, clothes clinging to his body like wet paper mache. 

He was still in this shitty hotel. This shitty hotel in his shitty hometown after killing a shitty clown/demon/interdimensional god/whatever. 

But Eddie was safe. Eddie was safe and alive and recovering, no longer in the hospital. Sleeping soundly in the space next to Richie on the bed. 

Shit, he was beautiful. With his brown hair and his dimples and his big doe eyes. Eyes that were now open and looking up at Richie. 

“Rich?” He mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep. “What’s wrong?” He slowly sat up, wincing in pain. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Richie was quick to answer. “I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

“Rich, you’re soaked. What happened?” Eddie said, grimacing as he put his hand on Richie’s shoulder, pulling it back and wiping it on the sheets. 

“Nothing, it’s fine. Just a nightmare.”

“Oh.” Eddie said, plainly. 

“Yeah. Oh.” Richie replied, trying to fake a chuckle, but falling flat.

“Wanna...talk about it?” Eddie offered, looking at Richie with his big, hopeful brown eyes.

“To be completely honest, no,” Richie said, this time managing a dry laugh. 

“That’s alright. Just know you can talk to me.” This time Eddie put his hand on Richie’s shoulder and didn’t take it off. 

“Thanks, Eds.” A smile crept across Richie’s face. “I doubt I’m going to fall back asleep any time soon. Might as well get a shower in.” He said, standing up. The ancient bed creaked loudly as he did.

“What, without me?” Eddie shot, quirking an eyebrow. 

Richie’s face went red and he stopped in his tracks. 

“Eds, I’m-”

“Don’t call me that. Wait up.” Eddie carefully stood up, eyes occasionally squeezing shut as he maneuvered out of the not-quite-big-enough-for-two-adult-men bed. 

“I need help washing anyway. Can’t lift my arms above my head, remember?” Eddie said, smirking. 

Richie nodded, thinking it best not to argue. 

If the other Losers heard what, Richie would recount in a comedy special, their first encounter, they didn’t mention it the next morning.

***

First sinking feeling:

Bill noticed first. Of course Bill. But he also tossed it aside, because of course Bill did.

Eddie can’t eat this. He can’t eat that. Does this have gluten in it? Egg? Where do you guys think this milk is from? Are you sure it isn’t expired? 

Watching Eddie spin the lazy-susan at The Jade was like watching a rusty merry-go-round. He spun it around and around, looking at the different foods, sometimes asking Mike what they were, what was in it, how it was cooked. 

He barely put anything on his plate, only taking vegetables, brown rice, and some noodles. 

_ Noodles? Didn’t those have gluten? _

Bill noticed when Eddie meticulously organized the food into small piles around his plate, picking at the food in a pattern: one corner of the plate and then the opposite corner, until he made it all the way around and then he started again. He carefully chewed his bites and Bill watched as his jaw worked, stopping on 30 bites every time. 

He didn’t mean to shrug it off, but Eddie was Eddie. He was meticulous in everything he did. He was always nervous about his health. It was probably just another manifestation of his health anxiety, nothing more. 

Bill was worried, but then again, Bill was always worried about his friends. Of what he could remember of Eddie, he remembered the conscientious, always worried boy who spoke a mile a minute. He was exactly the same. 

Exactly the same. So why should Bill be worried? 

Why should he worry about how Eddie’s eyes lingered on the plates in front of him, an internal struggle fighting between his eyes, before a minute head shake and a turn of the lazy-susan? Eddie was fine. He was just focused on his health. 

Of course, Bill shrugged it off. 

And Bill blamed himself, because of course he did.

***

Second sinking feeling:

“No, Richie, I’m not going to eat any of your stupid ice cream (“why?”)  _ because _ I’m lactose intolerant, asshole.”

“You weren’t lactose intolerant as a kid.” Bev said. 

They were sitting on the dingy couches in the dismal sitting room of the hotel, passing a pint of ice cream around as they waited for Mike and Bill. 

“Yeah, well, I am now.”

“Is that how that works?” Ben asked, genuinely confused.

“No. No, it isn’t, Eds. You’re not lactose intolerant.” Richie chimed in, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I am. Eating it makes me sick.” 

“Everything makes you sick.” 

“I just...can't eat it, alright, asshole?”

The amount of venom that came with that sentence shut Richie up immediately. The group went silent, everyone taking a sudden interest in something that wasn’t Richie or Eddie. Bev looked at the fireplace, at the dying embers. 

January embers, she thought and she smiled to herself. The name of the poet was so far away, yet so close. Something with a B...a beautiful smile...blue eyes, maybe? It was so hazy. 

That didn’t matter. She was worried about Eddie.

“Eddie, sweetie, can I talk to you? Alone?” She asked, smiling as kindly as she could over at Eddie. 

“Uh, sure?” He responded, cocking an eyebrow, but standing up nonetheless. 

She led him out into the hallway, away from the little sitting area. 

Once they were alone, she spoke softly. 

“Is everything alright?” She asked.

“What? Yeah, everything’s fine. Why?” He asked, looking at her, a bit confused.

“It’s just...why didn’t you eat any ice cream? You and Richie used to share ice cream as kids all the time.” Their memories were coming back, and Bev was remembering more and more of her friends. She remembered multiple occasions where Richie and Eddie, anxious, germaphobic Eddie, shared an ice cream cone. Full lactose.

Eddie sighed, seemingly giving in. 

“I just...I can’t eat it. Milk goes bad so fast and you can never really tell if it’s good or not. Ice cream is full of sugar and fake sugar, which is just chemicals, and flavorings, which is also just chemicals, and it’s just so unhealthy.” His words came out a mile a minute but Bev could understand perfectly. 

“Eddie, woah, calm down. It’s okay.” Bev said, placing her hand comfortingly on his shoulders. “It’s okay.” She repeated, forcibly meeting his eye.

“Sorry, I got a bit carried away.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Point is, milk is dangerous, with all its bacteria and it’s barely-there shelf life. I just..I can’t eat it, okay?” 

“Fine. That’s alright. You don’t have to eat it.” 

Eddie nodded, sighing with relief.

They walked back into the cramped sitting room, and Richie called out: “Okay, Spaghetti, what if we got you some lactose-free ice cream?” 

Eddie laughed, pretending to be annoyed. And everything returned to normal.

***

Hospital food:

“Yeah, can I get the nutritional info for this, please?” 

“Eddie, you just woke up and you’re already worrying?” Mike said, looking cautiously at his now-awake friend. “Take a load off, bud.” 

Eddie had been awake, officially awake and alive, for about 14 hours. He’d woken up at around midnight, the room empty except for a sleeping form in the chair next to his bed. 

Richie. 

God, he looked...well, he’d looked better. But he was still such a sight for sore eyes. 

_ “Richie?” Eddie whispered, his throat dry and voice hoarse.  _

_ Richie shot up, apparently not as asleep as he seemed to be.  _

_ He looked around, almost like he didn’t believe what he’d heard, but his eyes met Eddie’s and it was like something clicked inside of him, everything falling into place.  _

_ Richie was at his side within seconds, nearly knocking the chair he was sitting into the ground as he rushed to his feet. _

_ “Holy fuck, Eddie.” He said.  _

_ “Hey, Rich,” Eddie said, smiling slightly up at Richie.  _

_ “Hey, Eds,” Richie replied and Eddie could see tears welling up in his eyes.  _

_ Eddie reached out and Richie instinctively took his hand. _

_ Eddie did his best to scoot over on the bed, and Richie did his best to not mess up all the wires attached to Eddie's body.  _

_ And they fell asleep, curled up around each other, finally at peace.  _

Now it was 1 pm and it was lunchtime. 

But Eddie wasn’t eating.

“Guys, I have no idea what this is or what’s in it. I can’t eat it. What if, what if it’s moldy or rotten or something. You know, that shit happens.” 

The other Losers looked at each other, confusion and concern written on all of their faces. 

“Eddie, it’s...hospital food. It’s just...it’s food.” Bill said, ever so eloquently.

“Eddie, I don’t understand. They wouldn’t serve rotten food.” Ben tried to reason. 

But Eddie just shook his head, taking in a few shaky breaths as he looked at the tray. 

“Eddie, you need to eat,” Bev said, placing her hand on his arm. 

“No!” Eddie said, panic surging through him. In a moment of pure panic-fueled anger, Eddie forcefully pushed back the wooden desk that held the tray over his hospital bed, sending it speeding back, the tray sliding across the top, nearly toppling over. 

His friends stared in shock, and a nurse entered the room, carefully maneuvering around the five people (they had sent Richie to take a shower) standing in the room. 

“Mr. Kaspbrak, are you done with your lunch?” The nurse asked, standing at the foot of his bed.

“Yeah, I’m finished.” Eddie said, glaring at the wall in front of him, pointedly avoiding any eye contact with his friends. 

***

Eddie pointedly ignored the hushed whispers of his friends. 

They had no idea what they were talking about. He was fine. Well, besides the fact that he’d be shish-kebabed by a demonic clown, but that was besides the point. 

His friends were worried about his eating, about the food he ate, or more importantly the food he didn’t eat. 

But he was fine. He just cared about his health. He ate healthy foods, focused on nutrients, got exactly what he needed, no little, no less. 

Vitamins, carbohydrates, sugars, fats, that’s all food was. Nutrients. 

So what if he cared a little too much about what was in his food, how much sugar or fat or carbs were in it? Obesity ran in his family. He watched his mother slowly die from diabetes, he’d been the one to pick up her insulin from the pharmacy, watched her inject herself with the needle, giving her body the chemical it couldn’t process, stopped making.

Peripheral neuropathy cut off sensation in her limbs, retinopathy slowly stole her vision, sleep apnea kept her up at night. 

Atherosclerosis is what killed her, the deposition of plaques of fatty material on the inner walls of arteries, which progressed to coronary artery disease, which then triggered a heart attack, which killed her. 

His mother died alone, asleep in her chair. 

He couldn’t end up like that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He made sure. 

Eddie carefully monitored every single substance that passed his lips, exercised religiously, and took every vitamin on the shelf. If it wasn’t FDA approved, it didn’t touch his body. 

He read nutritional labels like the bible his mother used to clutch. 

~~ The bible she hit him with when she read his diary, (no,  _ journal, girl’s had diaries)  _ that one time. ~~

He knew his friends were getting fed up with him. He knew it. But they were just too scared to confront him. He was beginning to get antsy. 

Ever since that day at the hospital, after he’d made a full, miraculous recovery (the wound had sewn itself shut, somehow, leaving only a faint, white line where the spider limb had pierced his flesh) and was discharged from the hospital, pain management medication left behind on the sink and physical therapy offices in Chicago scribbled on his discharge paperwork, ever since then, the Losers had been tense. They floated around him, speaking in quiet, fervent whispers, occasionally looking at him, a hint of sadness, worry, or, even worse,  _ pity  _ written on their faces. 

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Is there something you guys want to tell me?” He spat, fingers nearly white from how hard they gripped the handles of his crutches. 

God, those stupid fucking crutches. He didn’t need them. He was fine. The wound healed itself. He could walk on his own. He didn’t need the constant reminder of how weak everyone  knew  thought he was. 

“Eddie…” Beverly said, eyebrows pulled low, close to her eyes. Sadness. Worry. Pity. 

God, it was unbearable. Her voice was soft, gentle, like she was speaking to a scared child. Like she was about to tell him his hamster died or that the field trip to the aquarium was canceled.

“What, Bev?” He snapped, jaw muscles working as he tried to contain his anger.

“We’re worried about you, honey.” She said, her expression never changing, her voice keeping that steady, gentle tone. Never in his life had he felt more wrath towards being called “honey”. 

“Don’t start with that. I’m fine.” He was so fucking tired of everyone babying him. He could handle himself. 

“Eddie, wuh-when was the luh-luh-last time you ate som-mm-something?” Bill asked. 

“Like, food-food. Not, whatever  _ that  _ is.” Ben added, gesturing to the protein smoothie in Eddie’s hand. 

“First of all, asshole, this is a smoothie. A  _ smoothie _ .” He could feel his blood boiling. “It’s fruit and vegetables and-, and-, and some vitamin mix and some protein mix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s not food, Eds.” Ben said, his kind eyes fixed on Eddie’s fleeting ones.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” His chest heaved. His heart pounded. Where was his goddamned inhaler?

“Eddie..” Bev said again.

“Stop that, would you?” Eddie rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time for this. He needed his inhaler. He couldn’t breath. His heart was pounding. Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to have a heart attack? Was this a heart attack? Was he going to die?

_ Symptoms of a heart attack: _

_ Chest pain/tightness? Check _

_ Abnormal heart rate? Check _

_Tingling in left arm?_ Was his arm tingling? Fucking hell, was he dying? He was dying. This was how he was going to die. He was going to die from a heart attack just like his mother. 

Tingling in limbs could also be caused by peripheral neuropathy. Diabetes. He probably had diabetes. He was going to die. Die from a heart attack. Die from heart disease, his arteries clogging up, closing and closing, tighter and tighter, squeezing off the blood flow, squeezing shut just like his lungs would if he didn’t find his  _ fucking inhaler _ . 

He vaguely registered Bev trying again with an “Eddie…”, vaguely heard the glass of liquid nutrients smash to pieces, crystal-clear glass mixing with the white-grey mixture, seeping down into the dark wooden floorboards. He vaguely felt her heart break, his friends collectively come to their conclusion that something was, indeed, horribly wrong with their friend, as they all reached out, trying to pull Eddie back into the dismal sitting area, but he pushed past them, throwing his crutches to the ground, rushing up the stairs and to his room in the dingy hotel they were still sleeping in, in their shitty hometown.

God, he needed to get out of this place. He couldn’t stay here any longer. He was going insane. 

He still couldn’t breathe. He was having a heart attack. He was dying. Where was his inhaler?

Drawers were opened, bags emptied, furniture overturned. Nowhere. His inhaler was nowhere.

His inhaler was underground. His inhaler was melted, it’s contents sacrificed in an artificial ceremony to an all-too-real demon. His inhaler was gone.

He was going to die. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying. He couldn’t breathe. 

He felt strong arms come behind him, cautiously wrapping around his torso, pulling him back against a broad, strong chest. 

He was dying. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying. He couldn’t breathe. Heart attack. Dying.

Immediately, he flipped around, arms going around Richie’s neck, and he sobbed. 

Sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. 

He couldn’t breathe. He was dying. Peripheral Neuropathy. Heart Disease. Heart attack. He was dying. He couldn’t breathe. His arteries were closing. Atherosclerosis. He was..he was..he was.

“You’re okay,” Richie said, softly, so softly. Whispering. Breath touching his hair, brushing the strands back against the top of his head. “You’re okay.” 

He was okay. He was okay. He was okay. 

Richie kept repeating it, as Eddie sobbed into his chest, breath hitching and snot dribbling down his face, mixing with tears. Richie didn’t even care that his shirt was getting ruined. 

Richie kept repeating it, as he walked them to the bed, sitting them down on the mess of bed sheets and clothes piled from when Eddie had dumped the contents of his suitcases in his fervid search. 

Richie rocked them slowly, waiting patiently while Eddie cried, never once stopping his constant reassurance. 

He was okay. He was okay. He was okay.

“I’m okay.” Eddie said, finally. His voice was hoarse from crying, his throat sore and eyes sticky with tears. 

“You are.” Richie said. He rested his head against Eddie’s. 

“I am.” Eddie let out a heavy sigh, releasing the last bit of panic into the world, letting it dissipate into the air, molecules of fear spreading between the oxygen and carbon dioxide, floating away from him and mixing into the universe. 

Richie didn’t let go, holding Eddie close, arms wrapped around Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s face tucked into the crook of Richie’s neck. 

“I love you.” Eddie said. He didn’t even know why he said it. He didn’t know what came over him. He just...said it. It was true. He felt the statement in his bones, deep in his core. He loved Richie. Loved him so much it hurt. Loved him so much that not telling him hurt more than anything that could happen if he did. 

“You...do?” Richie said. Eddie heard Richie’s heart rate speed up, felt his breath hitch. 

“Yeah.” Eddie said, not picking his head up, not looking at Richie’s face. “I do.” 

Richie never pulled away, didn’t throw Eddie off of him, didn’t shove him to the ground and start running. In fact, if anything, Richie pulled him closer. 

“Shit, Eds, I’ve loved you since, fuck, since middle school.” Richie said, chuckling lightly. 

“Fucking hell, me too.” Eddie responded, chucking as well, trying to ignore his racing heart. He was okay. “Jesus, we’re thick, huh?”

Richie just laughed and hugged his close. 

He was okay. 

***

Orthorexia. His therapist called it Orthorexia. It was an eating disorder. Orthorexia: an eating disorder characterized by an excessive preoccupation with eating what one deems as “healthy”, “clean” or “pure” food. Eddie Kaspbrak, 40-year-old divorcee, soon-to-be fiance of famous comedian Richie Tozier, demon-slayer and ex-risk analyst, had an eating disorder. 

And he was in treatment. And he was going to be okay. 

Eddie Kaspbrak was going to be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It really means a lot to me! Sorry, it's so heavy but I left it on a happy note!   
> What's your favorite color?  
> btw, the working title for this fic (otherwise known as, the title of the Google Doc it was originally written in) was EDdie.   
> (get it?...like.. ED..eating disorder?)


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